


Law of Common Fate

by redluna



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/pseuds/redluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Law of Common Fate:</b> (n) a Gestalt principle of organization holding that aspects of perceptual field that move or function in a similar manner will be perceived as a unit.</p>
<p>Eames never wanted the silver spoon kind of life he was born into, not with all the expectations that came with it. So he skipped out at the earliest opportunity, determined to become the artist he had always dreamed of being. But when the grandfather who supported him throughout life dies years later, Eames finds himself in sudden possession of the very manor which he fell in love with as a child.</p>
<p>Determined to do right by the place, and perhaps overcome his artistic slump along the way, he returns. But when he finds a mysterious painting tucked away in a hidden compartment everything changes.</p>
<p>Or a story where there are some lives that have been tugged along by fate for years and nothing will keep them from meeting. Even time itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that has been a long time in the making and I have the ever lovely [Cas](http://polymathema.tumblr.com) for inspiring me in the first place through his artwork and then for very patiently waiting for this to come into existence. I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Also, as a slight warning, there is some suggested infidelity along with the probability of some historically appropriate reactions to homosexuality. If either bother you then I'll understand completely if this is not your cup of tea.

Eames’ earliest memories were of the manor. It was something that hardly seemed surprising since his whole childhood—and beyond—had been spent in such sprawling structures. But this one was special. There was a reason, after all, that he referred to it as the manor, a title that set it apart from the rest.

It had been owned by his maternal grandfather, a man who readily accepted guardianship of him whenever his parents were called away on business. The place had been unlike any other estate that Eames had ever seen, looking more like a castle than a manor.

And his grandfather had been just as impressive a figure.

Eames’ parents had been fairly young when they married so his grandfather had never seemed truly old. The first time Eames could actually remember meeting him he had been a man with only a few patches of gray in his thick dark hair and just a faint trace of wrinkles on his face. Even when he had started to grow older, he managed to maintain a physical routine that kept him in better shape than most men his age.

He always had more than enough energy to keep up with a child as rambunctious as Eames. Together they explored nearly every inch of the manor, which was quite a feat given its size. There was always some story about anything they might discover from the elegant marble busts and statues to the paintings that lined the walls, whether they had been there for generations or only recently acquired.

When Eames grew older it was his grandfather who gave him his first instruction in how to fight, even providing him with a few fencing lessons. He started to let his grandson join him on his exercise routine, an offer Eames accepted at first out of a desire to impress his grandfather. Eventually, though, he came to find the strain in his muscles a pleasant feeling and the swims that came after in the nearby lake gave him a sense of freedom that he hadn’t had before.

Everything changed when Eames hit fifteen, however. It was at that age that his parents decided that he was old enough not to need a babysitter anymore—their words, not his—and could tag along on their various business trips. After all, it was all centered on the company that he was supposed to be in control of one day.

Looking back on those years, Eames could hardly understand why his parents were so surprised when he announced he wanted nothing to do with their plans. He dragged his feet, griping the whole way to whatever new thing they deemed he just had to go to. 

The only places he didn’t complain about going to were the art museums and galleries. It was meant to be a social event for everyone else, time to sip glasses of expensive wine while nibbling on bits from the cheese platters and pretending not to talk business when you obviously were. For Eames, however, it was about taking advantage of everyone else’s distraction to explore every inch of the place.

It was how he got his first education in art since he came to learn that all artists loved to talk about their work. Even the night guards had a few choice comments to share with him, chuckling good-naturedly when he asked if he could practice drawing portraits with their profile.

It was harder when he couldn’t take any official classes, but he made it work. He bought books by the dozens, copying the examples within them until his hand ached. He even snuck into those groups that gathered in the palazzos or the courtyards. He wound up in the ones for novices more often than not, but sometimes he would strike gold and stumble across a real class. He always got a collection of almost patronizingly fond glances when he wound up in the latter, but it didn’t matter either way. If there was a chance to learn than he would take it no matter what it was.

His grandfather knew about it all because of course he did. He was the only one who was actually watching, after all. So it just went to form that he actually clapped when Eames announced his plans to be an artist, laughing when his daughter tried to scold him for it.

His parents made the typical threats of disownment and followed through with them the instant Eames walked out the door. They expected that without any money he would come crawling straight back home to beg their forgiveness. And, although Eames hated to admit it, they might have been right if it hadn’t been for his grandfather. 

He wasn’t given his usual allowance since his grandfather’s philosophy was that if this was something he wanted he should show it by fighting his way into proving it. Eames couldn’t deny that it was something that certainly made sense, but proving oneself in the art world was a lot harder than Eames had thought and he expected it to be pretty hard from the start.

At this rate he was stuck crafting the recreations of artwork that people wanted to hang in their offices to give off an appearance of class. He had taken to ignoring his parents’ phone calls or, at least, the calls their personal assistants put in for them. He had learned a long time ago that getting his actual parents on the phone was about as rare as getting a real person on the phone when you had to put in a call to any sort of company.

Now, though, he wondered if he might have received less of a shock this morning if he had picked up those calls. Because, according to the piece of paper in his hands, his grandfather was dead and his Last Will and Testament meant that Eames got it all.

Which meant all those savings were his and the manor.

 _The_ manor.

Eames dropped back in his chair, the paper crumpling in his hand. “Well shit,” he said.

\---

The last time Eames had touched down on this part of England he had been a scrawny eighteen year old that was still trying to fill out into all the parts of his body. He was older now, of course, but it didn’t feel that way at all once he stepped out of the rental car and felt the gravel of the driveway under his feet.

He figured he shouldn’t be surprised that the laugh that escaped from him sounded so choked when he saw all the staffed lined up outside waiting for him. “Oh God, you’re really all still here,” he said.

Miles, the butler and de facto everything most of the time, stepped forward, voice as crisp and precise as ever. “You could hardly have expected us to leave, sir,” he said. “This place is as much our home as it is yours.” He frowned. “Which is why I will have to have some very cross words with you if you try to sell it.”

There was a shocked sounding, “ _Père_!” from Miles’ daughter, but Eames only laughed. “I get the feeling cross doesn’t even begin to cover what’d come out of your mouth,” he said, “but you don’t need to worry. Selling this place is the last thing on my mind. If anything I should just hand it over to you. You’d probably run it far better than I ever could.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir.” Miles’ face softened as he reached out to lay his hand on Eames’ shoulder. “This is your home, you know. We’ve just been waiting for you to find your way back to us.”

Eames had to blink hard against the sudden burning sensation behind his eyes. “Miles, you’re going to make me damage all of your proper British sensibilities by crying in front of you.”

“Well fortunately I have no such sensibilities.” Mal darted forward, throwing her arms around Eames. There were some gasps of astonishment from the younger staff that must have been new while the older staff just sighed no doubt well use to this kind of break in protocol. “You promised to write to me, you naughty boy!” 

Eames hoisted Mal up high long enough for her to kick her well heeled feet in the air before lowering her back down to rest his face in her shoulder. “Sorry Mal,” he said, “I did try you know.”

Mal heaved out a much put upon sigh, patting his back with an air of great sacrifice. “Well I suppose I’ll just have to forgive you, won’t I?” she said. “Seeing as your master of us all now.”

Eames’ laughter sound alarmingly wet and he was glad no one commented on it. “Ugh, you can’t say stuff like that, Mal,” he said. “I just want to be Eames to you—to all of you, for that matter—you know that.”

“And you will be,” Miles said, “except when company is over.”

Eames lifted up his head. “I’m afraid there won’t be much of that,” he said. “Especially since I realize I missed the service.” That was a wound that was still fresh, despite his attempt to keep his tone light. “I heard Grandfather requested to be buried on the grounds, however.”

“Yes,” Miles said. “I can show you there at some point if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Miles,” Eames said, “I would appreciate that a great deal. I gather I have you to thank for my parents not being here to greet me when I arrived as well?”

The corners of Miles’ mouth twitched up ever so slightly. “I am certain I have no idea what you are speaking of.” Eames didn’t miss the wink Miles gave before he turned around, however.

\---

Apparently there had been a bit of a fuss of where to set up Eames’ room. Eames had expected it would just be in the room he had always had when he came to stay, but that was seemingly not enough now that he had come to own the estate. Fortunately everyone had realized that the last thing he wanted was to be stowed away in the main bedroom. That place still seemed like the domain of his grandfather and, for a brief time, his grandmother.

His new room was almost as grand as the ones that had once belonged to the previous owner of the estate, however. Although he supposed it was more accurate to say rooms when it came down to it because he had been settled with a virtual suite.

Everything was laid out in a color scheme of shades of blue and cream, from the carefully carved furniture with the golden inlays to the wallpaper on the walls, which featured a design that Eames just knew his mother would label as garish.

Actually there was probably a great deal about the manor that both of his parents would label as overdone. The whole place was an old one, after all, one of the few estates to have survived through both of the World Wars. It had been updated to reflect the times, of course, but there were still some things that spoke of its age. The elaborate marble with the craved Grecian figures, for example, or the grand chandeliers that swung from many of the ceilings.

His parents would have no doubt ordered a whole remodel of the place before trying to sell it off on the market just to give themselves a bit more money to line their pockets. It truly was a blessing that his grandfather’s Will had been so iron clad or else he was sure his parents would have tried to steal the place right out from under him.

He knew he would have to participate in his grandfather’s market ventures unless he wanted those to get snapped up too, but he figured that could be a worse fate. His grandfather tended to favor small business ventures that managed to become largely self-sufficient on their own, after all, and a good number of them were local. 

There were far worse things he could be doing with his time. Like staring at a blank canvas for the thousandth time in a row or trashing yet another substandard piece.

Maybe this change in pace would be good for him.

\---

The next few weeks passed in a blur for Eames. He had all but jetted off directly from New York City so there were more than a few loose ends to wrap up there. He did take some satisfaction in telling the particularly annoying client he had been dealing with for the better half of the month exactly where to stick it.

He had brought everything important with him when he came so there wasn’t much left but to simply inform his landlord that his flat could be put up on the market again.

He did wind up spending the better half of a day being poked with pins, though, because Mal was dismayed with the state of his wardrobe. She even dragged him out into the bustling nearby town to pick out a few more outfits—her version of a few more, not his—at all sorts of trendy little boutiques.

He was grateful for the first time in ages to have a driver since they could stow the copious amounts of bags in the boot of the car before heading off to pick up some lunch at a café where the warm weather allowed them to sit outside. 

Eames should have known that he wasn’t going to be getting off that easily, though, since it took only a few seconds after the waitress had bustled off with their orders for Mal to tuck her ankle around his.

“So, what is it?” she asked.

Growing up, Mal was the closest thing Eames had to an actual friend. She was the only other child around the manor, the two of them constantly getting under the feet of a staff that loved them far too much. And Mal had always had a curious ability to read people, especially when it came to the boy she had decided was going to be her very best friend for life.

“Who says something has to be wrong?” Eames tossed back.

“You mean besides from the obvious?” Mal sighed, shaking her head. “I thought that your funk was from the loss of your grandfather, but now I’m starting to think it has to do with something more.” Her stare pinned Eames to his seat. “Does it?”

Eames rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing, alright?” he said. “I’m just going through a bit of a slump with my work and this whole…” He waved his hand once in the air then sighed. “Well everything that’s going on right now really isn’t helping, you know?”

Mal reached across the table to cover his hand with hers. “Of course it’s not,” she said, “but I would hate to see this consume you, Eames.”

The smile that stretched across Eames’ face was worryingly like the fake kind he used for clients. “Don’t worry, Mal,” he said, “I know how to keep my head above water.”

Mal squeezed his hand once before letting it go to lift her cup of tea to her lips. “I do wonder,” she said. “I seem to remember you coming up with some very interesting explanations for your grandfather as to why the contents of his liquor cabinet had diminished.”

“As if you did much better!” Eames said. “Blushing and looking up at all of them from underneath your eyelashes. They were all set to convinced that I had been the one to convince you, you little minx!”

This sort of banter was easy, something Eames could do through mostly second nature and he tried not to think that Mal was giving him this as some sort of reprieve.

\---

Even with that, though, Eames was left with the feeling that he had to prove himself somehow. Which was how he wound up sitting in bed that night with his sketchpad propped up on his legs.

It started out with just a simple sketches and it really should have stayed that way, but out of the blue he realized that he wasn’t really drawing things at random. There were too many familiar features littered across the faces he was drawing for it to be a coincidence.

He was trying to draw his grandfather.

It _should_ have been easy. He might not have spoken to his grandfather face to face in years, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a whole flock of pictures of him. His grandfather’s face wasn’t one you tended to forget anyway.

Yet the key word here was that it should have been easy.

Instead he found himself scraping paper after paper because none of it added up to what was in his head. By the last attempt his hand was shaking so badly that all his lines were shot to hell. 

He didn’t throw the sketchpad against the wall or anything as dramatic as that, but it did wind up being tossed onto his bed. It was the pencil that wound up bouncing off the wall in its place.

He thumped down onto his bed and, for the first time since he had arrived, allowed himself to grieve.


	2. Chapter 2

The problem with small businesses, Eames was quick to learn, was that most of them were quite capable of running on their own. It was something to be proud of, certainly, and Eames didn’t miss the stacks of paperwork he had so often seen his father buried under, but that didn’t dismiss the fact that he didn’t really have much to do without such management. 

Fortunately it didn’t take long for Miles to take pity on him and point out some of the work that needed to be done around the house. Even in this day and age it wasn’t that common for the owner of such an estate to be tending directly to such things instead of hiring someone, but if his grandfather had never stuck to such conventions than neither would Eames.

Although, to be perfectly honest, he did have to call someone to deal with things like the improvement of the heating system around certain areas of the house and the electricity. He had tried to claim he could deal with the plumbing but all it took was one (small, honestly!) flood for Mal to grab him by the ear and swear him off of that for good.

He worked better outside anyway. Mal was insistent that the gardener, a man named Yusuf, needed to be kept under control before his exotic species and experiments overtook the garden, but there was no way Eames was going to agree after watching Yusuf at work.

“But, Mal, they’re _beautiful_!” had been his response when she looked at him in betrayal while Yusuf went about his planting.

Mal had simply thrown up her hands at them both before storming away, muttering something about how traditional beauty would always succeed over the manufactured sort. 

She didn’t take offense to the roses, each in a differing shade, that Yusuf left her as a peace offering, however. She even started to dig into the ground right alongside them, getting into more than a few heated debates with Yusuf over just where certain plants should go. They would always turn towards Eames in the end, leaving him in the horrible position of deciding between a man who could probably poison him with his knowledge of plants and the woman who would be dangerously close to his food each day.

He resolved to never tell him that train of thought, however, because that would only lead them to consider combining forces even more, which was too terrifying a thought to be allowed.

But it was the youngest maid, Ariadne, that surprised them all.

Mal was in the midst of an argument with Yusuf over how a maze would be much more functional than a labyrinth of hedges when Ariadne paused in her sweeping of the patio.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure a labyrinth would be better,” she said. “The whole point of a maze is to get _out_ , so you would have to have people starting at the center and working their way out. It’s totally different with a labyrinth, though, since with those you have to try to figure out how to get to the center.” She spread out her hands, broom balanced on her chest. “See? Much more fun.” She shrugged when the others looked over at her in astonishment, seeming only slightly sheepish. “I’m studying architecture over at the local university.”

“Huh.” Eames glanced over at Mal, finding that even she looked impressed. “Well, Ariadne, do you want to help Yusuf come up with his labyrinth then?”

The grin Ariadne offered up in response to that question was positively blinding. “Definitely!” She hopped down from the patio, leaving the broom discarded against the railing. “There used to be one here before, ages ago, but it got torn down for some reason.” Her face scrunched up. “It was such a waste, honestly, because it was so beautiful in the photographs.”

“There used to be…” Eames looked over at the area where Ariadne was gesturing, frowning a little bit. “What photographs? I don’t think I saw anything like that in any of the ones my grandfather had on display.”

“Well that would be because we found these right around…” Ariadne trailed off, looking truly guilty now and when she spoke again her voice was soft. “He was having us clean up to get things ready for you and…well…we just found it.” Eames could just tell she wanted to sink down into the ground right then and there. “Would you like to see them?”

Eames placed a hand on Ariadne’s shoulder, hoping to put her out of her misery. “Of course I would,” he said.

\---

From the way Ariadne was describing things, Eames was half expecting to be lead up to the attic. The place she took them, though, was just about the same.

It wasn’t as though this part of the house was in disrepair, but he could see why it had gone unbothered with by the majority of the staff until recently. His grandfather had no problem with keeping only the parts of the manor that would be seen regularly up to the sparklingly clean standards, much as Miles wanted to rip his hair out over it. The rest of the manor could be checked up on once every so often to make sure it didn’t become to overrun. 

It was obvious that someone had cleaned the place, yet Eames still found himself sneezing as Ariadne dug a stack of photographs out from a trunk.  
“We just found them right here,” she said. “The trunk was at the foot of the bed with the lock over all the clasp all rusted over. It wasn’t much work to get it off.”

“I guess someone really didn’t want anyone to see what was inside,” Eames said.

“Which is weird, don’t you think?” Ariadne sat down on the mattress, Eames following her, although he winced at the whine it gaze out under their weight. She propped one of the albums up on her knees, the others stacked up on her other side. The pages creaked as she turned them, rummaging up a scent that was old yet somehow familiar all at once.

Eames had expected the photos to be uniformed in some way, yet each seemed to portray something different. The only thing that seemed to link them together were that all of them were of the manor. Some of the rooms were recognizable, but some had features that made Eames have to dwell over them for a while until he got them. There was a truly impressive shot of the grand chandelier in the ballroom that had been maintained with great care throughout the years and a few shots of light streaming through the grand windows in the main part of the house, which Eames thought would look even lovelier if in color.

The photographs depicting the original setup of the garden were found eventually, which Ariadne handed over to Yusuf and Mal. This caused the usual bickering to pick up all over again, but this time they were looking to Ariadne to settle their debates so Eames contented himself with looking through the other photo albums.

After so many interior and landscape shots it was a bit of a shock to see an actual human face staring back at him when he opened the album. The girl in the photograph was lovely, though. Her dark hair had been pulled back with a single section left to curve its way down her neck. The flush to her cheeks was evident even in the dark coloring of the photograph, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Eames traced his finger along with name that had been added in elegant cursive at the bottom of the photograph. “Daphne,” he murmured. 

The whole album was littered with photographs of this girl or, rather, Daphne. There were some that were more formal, like the one where she was all done up in an elaborate ball gown, a mask attached to the long stick she held in her upraised hand. Many of them, however, were far more informal; the kind one could only catch when the person had their guard down. And in so many of them Daphne was wearing that soft smile, the warmth in her eyes bursting out from the photograph, no matter how old it was.

There was no way to tell who the photographer was—at least not yet—but it was evident that Daphne had cared deeply for them, whoever they were.

“Hey, Ariadne.” Eames didn’t bother to hide his grin when it wasn’t just Ariadne’s head that snapped towards him. “Do you know anything about the people that owned this place before my family?” His grandfather had always spoken of how he had saved the place from being all but knocked down in the aftermath of the second world war, but had never really elaborated beyond that.

Ariadne’s brow furrowed as she thought it over. “No, I don’t think I’ve been here long enough for that,” she said. “Although I’m pretty sure Miles is the best source of information when it comes to this place.” She looked up at Mal for conformation, who only nodded.

“ _Père_ , has been here from the start,” she said, “working right along Eames’ grandfather. He knows the history of this estate better than any of us.” She grinned, passing off some of the photo albums to Yusuf while she gathered up the rest. “And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we came down to ask him for a few stories over tea.”

\---

The actual servant quarters hadn’t been put into use in a day and an age. Or, at least, not in the bustling way it had once been. A good number of the staff merely commuted to work while Yusuf lived in a cottage not too far off on the grounds. Miles had constructed the place into a miniature home of sorts alongside with Mal. It had been all too easy for them to find room for Ariadne to stay in amongst them as well.

It was the place where Eames had had his first sleepovers with Mal. The two of them would huddle together in the chairs at the too long table, clutching onto their mugs of hot chocolate while Miles conjured him one tale after another.

For that reason Eames grinned up at Miles when he found hot chocolate being placed down before him instead of tea.

Miles simply waved a hand at him before settling down at the head of the table with his own mug. “Call me sentimental.” He shifted the mug in his hands, taking a deep swallow of the hot chocolate before speaking again. “So, what precisely is it that you want to know?”

Instead of answering, Eames reached for the photo album he had been looking through before, flipping it open until the photographs of Daphne were on full display once more.

“Ah.” Miles wrangled his glasses out of his breast pocket, slipping them on as he leaned over the photos with a slight smile. “I was wondering if we might be seeing that young lady again.”

“Again?” Eames frowned. “You’ve seen her before?”

“Yes,” Miles said, “and so have you, my dear boy.” He chuckled when Eames only stared at him in bewilderment. “Your grandfather was as sentimental as me, I’m afraid. He hung her portrait in the hall leading towards his bedroom. I believe he wanted to start up that old practice of being able to trace the owners of an estate through the paintings done of them.”

“So she was the last person to own the house?” Eames asked.

“Not exactly,” Miles said. “I know it was once her family’s main estate, but, for whatever reason, she moved away from it after her marriage. This place was mainly maintained through some of her relatives, yet the price of maintaining it after she died was quite steep. It was part of why your grandfather was able to purchase it so easily.”

“But what about her children?” Eames said.

“Worried about a possible contender to your throne?” Miles laughed anew as Eames only raised his eyebrows incredulously at him. “You have little need to fret either way. The Honorable Lady Daphne Wiltshire left no children to succeed her.”

“The Honorable?” Ariadne piped up. “Her family was tilted then?”

“Indeed,” Miles said. “Her father held the rank of marquis. From what I was able to gather, he was quite proud of his ancestral title, but was quite determined to achieve the rank of duke.”

Yusuf let out a low whistle. “I suppose you gotta aim high,” he said.

“Pah,” Mal huffed. “He should have been content with what he had. It is impressive to hold any sort of rank, let alone one of the upper ones, and he never even had to work for it. Wanting more is just plain greedy.”

“Everyone was greedy back then,” Ariadne said. “I’m pretty sure it was just a thing of the times.”

“Times haven’t changed much then,” Eames remarked.

Mal clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “So much for an ever evolving society,” she said.

Yusuf shrugged. “Guess we can’t escape what we are as much as we would like to think,” he said.

Ariadne threw her hands up in the air. “Alright, this is just getting depressing,” she said. “So I’m gonna throw a conversation changer out there.” She placed her hands down on the table with a grin that really should have been a warning. “So… What’s the stance on flowers being in the labyrinth?”

Yusuf’s quick sound of approval was almost completely overtaken by Mal’s sharp refusal. Ariadne took advantage of the resulting argument to wink at Eames, who had to actually press his hands to his mouth so he would burst out laughing and turn their ire towards himself.

Miles simply shook his head fondly, sipping away at his hot chocolate as he observed the debate like one would a tennis match. Lord knew he had probably seen his fair share of such things. 

Besides, it certainly was entertaining.


	3. Chapter 3

After the discovery of the photo albums, Eames found himself far more interested in the unused part of the manor. He couldn’t actually renovate the whole section since most sections didn’t really need it, but didn’t mean it wasn’t in need of a pretty good scrub down.

There were some of the staff that were a little horrified at first at how ready Eames was to pitch in, but, honestly, he had to do something with his hands while his artistic muse continued to be reclusive or he would go mad.

He wound up working mostly with Mal and Ariadne anyway since the two of them were the most excited about what could be found. Sometimes Yusuf would pitch in too when he could be spared from recreating the garden as best he could from the old photos.

There were a few mishaps, namely in finding bugs that all of them got to attack with relish (“Mace, Eames,” Ariadne had said through gritted teeth. “I want to use mace. And a flame thrower.”). What was found more often, however, were all sorts of unexpected treasures.

There were trunks stock full of everything from dainty nightgowns with faded lace to stiff ball gowns that almost stood on their own still, making it seem truly a wonder that they had ever fit folded up in the trunks at all.

The shoes were the truly interesting find in that room, though, along with smaller boxes filled with long dried up makeup containers. 

Ariadne dipped her rag into the bucket of polish to scrub carefully at the golden plate on one of those daintier boxes, inhaling sharply when she finally got it clean.

“What is it?” Eames asked.

“It’s hers!” Ariadne said. Her eyes darted up to Eames, already wide. “It’s Daphne’s!”

Eames glanced around her to stare at the plate. Sure enough, there were the initials “ _D.W._ ” in curling, if faded font. “Well what do you know.” He straightened back up, brushing his hands against his thighs. “I guess we should have seen it coming, huh?”

“I suppose.” Ariadne rose to her feet as well, looking around the room. “But why would your grandfather have left all this stuff in here? He could sell it to a museum for a small fortune if he wanted to.”

“Especially this.” Mal was holding a small box in her hands, the metal in it slightly tarnished. When she opened it, however, everyone saw just what she meant.

“Blimey!” Yusuf said. “That’s not something you should just leave laying around.” 

“Certainly not,” Mal agreed. She sat down on the bed, nose wrinkling against the dust that rose up. She rummaged through the collection of jewels with careful fingers. “This can’t have been all of what she owned, of course, but the precious stones alone…” She trailed off, lifting something out of the box. 

Eames sat down next to her so he could get a better look. From far away it had just looked like a heavy silver pendant hanging from a similarly forged chain, yet on closer inspection he could see that it was actually a locket with an emerald placed in the front.

He tried to be careful when he opened the locket, yet he still wound up having to try to stop things from tumbling out of it. In the end, however, he wound up having to snatch the things up in his hand, showing the others once they all drew in close.

There was a lock of dark hair with a ribbon tied around it to keep all the strands in place along with a note that had been folded up multiple times to fit inside the locket.

Mal plucked up the note, unfolding it carefully so not to give the paper any cause to rip. “It’s hard to make out,” she murmured, “but I believe it says…” Her brow furrowed. “‘To her that is most dearly loved, A.M.’ Well I suppose it would be a love token, wouldn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Ariadne asked.

Mal folded the letter back up before taking the lock of hair from Eames, tucking both back into the locket. Eames felt a strange urge to seize back what had been taken from him although he couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t like he could have any true claim on something that had come about before he had even existed.

“It has to do with the stone,” Mal was saying. “Emeralds are supposed to represent the honesty of your affections. If the stone remains clear than it means your love has been true to you. But if it clouds over…”

“Oh!” Ariadne said. “But it has!”

Mal frowned. “It’s just an old wives’ tale,” she said. “There is no way to tell whether such a thing means anything.” But even she seemed put out as she put the necklace back in the box.”

“Who is ‘A.M’, though?” Ariadne asked. “One of Daphne’s admirers?”

“Or maybe her husband,” Yusuf said. “Although that would be rotten luck if the guy didn’t appreciate what he had.” 

Eames spread out his hands. “So, does anyone want to settle this debate with the internet?” he asked.

Mal simply huffed. “My father is much more interesting than any internet source,” she said.

\---

And, because Mal was nearly always right (but never tell her that), it wound up being the topic of conversation over dinner with Miles that night.  
Technically Eames could have eaten somewhere on his own, but he didn’t see the sense in eating away from the only friends he had on the estate.

Miles turned the locket over curiously in his hand. “I do indeed know who our mystery man is.” He took a lingering swallow of wine before answering. “His name was Arthur Moss. He came from one of those American families that was in desperate need to marry up. In this case it was for money.”

“But he loved Daphne, didn’t he?” Ariadne said. “I mean, the locket was full of love tokens.”

Miles turned a soft, almost pitying gaze upon Ariadne. “Unfortunately, tokens like these are easily given away. I do believe he cared for her in his own way, for, from what I can tell, he was a good man and it was evident that she loved him dearly. Yet there was an incident…no one knows quite what it was…and from then on the two were never quite the same.”

“Did he…” Ariadne seemed to be tripping over her words, her expression pinched with worry. “But he didn’t… He couldn’t have…”

“Betrayed her with another?” Miles supplied. “Perhaps. Daphne certainly kept her husband on a tight leash for the rest of his life. She seemed to have lived quite the pampered life, doted over as her parents only child. There are stories of how snappish she was with other women over the subject of her husband, although, curiously, it was the men she got the most upset over. She didn’t like her husband spending time off with other men of their class and there were rumors that the reason he could not keep any attendants was because of her ire.”

“Perhaps she knew it wasn’t the women she had to fear then,” Mal mused.

Ariadne sucked in a sharp breath and she wasn’t the only one to look surprised. “Do you mean…” she whispered.

“Of course that’s what I mean,” Mal said. She shook her head, tossing her dark curls back over her shoulder. “People were even more foolish about such things back then. And it would have been an even greater risk for Daphne since it would have been her reputation that would have been dragged through the mud as well.”

“And Oscar Wilde hadn’t even gone through his famous trials yet,” Yusuf said. “It’s enough to make you sympathize with the poor guy, really?”

Ariadne stared down into her wine glass. “I suppose if it was like that, you have to,” she said. “I mean, he must have been doing what he thought was right, but then to actually have the chance to experience something that was _real_ …” She sighed. “I suppose anyone would have to take that.”

“I know I would,” Mal said.

“Ah, Mal,” Eames smiled, “ever the romantic.”

“As if you are one to talk,” Mal said. She lifted her wine glass up into the air. “A toast to those that still believe!”

Miles clinked his glass without question while Ariadne giggled as she did the same. Eames rolled his eyes, yet still grinned as he brought his own glass  
in.

Yusuf only managed to hold out for so long until he pressed his glass into the cluster as well. “Oh, well,” he said, “when in Rome and all that, I suppose.” He burst out laughing when Mal tried to steal his wine glass for herself, downing it all in one gulp.

Mal tried to appear horrified that he would go through such good wine without tasting it, but it was difficult even for her not to sound impressed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very slight warnings for references so suicide

Eames supposed he should have seen this coming eventually. He couldn’t remain at his grandfather’s former home, let alone in England, without his parents getting in contact with them. It went to show, though, that they would send someone else instead of lowering themselves to such a visit.

“Mr. Eames.” Nash rose from the armchair he had been seated in when Eames entered the parlor. His smile certainly hadn’t lost one inch of its slime, but maybe that just went for all lawyers; Eames could never be entirely sure. “It’s so good to see you again. We were wondering if we would ever see you back in your own country.”

“Back where I belong, you mean.” Eames waved away Nash’s protestations. “Come on now, we both know why you’re here. So why don’t we just skip the pleasantries and you can doll out my parents’ list of demands?”

Nash, as was to be expected, heaved out the most long suffering of sighs. “Your parents wish to know what your plans are.” He seemed on the verge of another sigh already when Eames simply raised his eyebrows at him. “Your plans for this estate and, in relation, your life. You must understand how it confounds them that you would shove their own offers back in their face while accepting one that comes from the grave.”

“It would have come from a living source,” Eames said, voice low, “if they had a paternal bone in their bodies.” He shook his head when Nash started to stammer around for words. “My parents are only worrying about my life now because they now I’m sitting pretty on a piece of land that could wind up being quite the investment for them. So they’re hoping they can either find some way to tempt me away or prick at my pride until I feel like I simply _have_ to go. Well you’ll just have to inform them that neither approach is going to work and be on your way.”

“Is that really all you want to tell them?” Nash pressed. “You haven’t seen them in years, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware.” Eames’ smile was positively feral with all the teeth it put on display. “And I get the sense that they would like to keep it that way as much as I would.”

\---

In the end, it wasn’t all that much of a hassle to get Nash out of the house, but there was still a sort of disquiet in the air that made it obvious he had been there. So Eames thought he was completely justified in quitting that part of the house completely and heading to the one place where he knew he could feel at peace.

It was probably a bit odd that that place was the room in which they had made their first discovery, but to Eames it felt like it had been the place where he had gained a new focus as well. He had been so busy with the rest of the surrounding rooms that he had barely even got a chance to return to the place anyway.

He wasn’t really searching for anything monumental. He just wanted to see if there were any more clues he could find out about the person who had once owned this room or, rather, things that could serve as distractions.

He had a hunch, after all, that the photo albums had been found in this room because the photographer had once been here. Since Daphne had looked so obviously happy in the photographs, it only seemed to figure that this would have been the room of her fiancé and that he had taken those photos of her before everything was flipped on its head.

It still felt a little mind-boggling, though, to think that so many things had been left behind. It made him wonder just how fast Daphne must have fled from this place with her newly wedded husband in tow. And the fact that she never even sent for the things to be forwarded ahead was even stranger.

Or, at least, that was what he was thinking was the strangest thing until his foot knocked against the wall by accident as he was pushing some boxes out of the way. It wouldn’t have been such a major event if it weren’t for the fact that instead of hearing the usual thud there was a strange echo. Eames’ brow furrowed as he dropped to his knees, knocking against the wall until he found the spot again. Sure enough, there was the sound again, yet it disappeared the instant Eames moved over to another section of the wall.

He spread his hands around the area, spreading one of his hands up towards the top. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the result of this was that the whole section of the wall just about pushed in on itself.

It took a deep breath for him to get his wits about himself enough to pull the now loose part of the wall back to peer into the odd little crevice that had been revealed. It was hard to see much, but there was definitely something there. It looked like a rectangular shaped something, but he couldn’t tell anything beyond that since it was covered in a now moth eaten sheet.

He could hear Mal yelling at him not to just go sticking his hands into things that he didn’t know even if she wasn’t there, but Eames ignored her in the same way he would have if she had been standing right besides him. The only difference was that he didn’t get hit for sticking his hand inside the crevice.

Nothing jumped out or bit him as he tugged the thing out anyway. Once he got his hands on it, though, he knew what it had to be through touch alone. Which was why he wasn’t at all surprised to discover that he was holding a canvas painting. 

The real shock came from the painting itself.

Sometimes it was only artist’s that were able to see the beauty in such things while everyone else stood around either pretending to follow along or just shaking their heads in bewilderment. But this was the type of thing that you simply couldn’t ignore.

Whoever had done this painting was a master and Eames certainly didn’t think he was exaggerating when he said that. It took a great level of skill alone to be able to create such a lifelike depiction of anything, let alone a person, and this was even more amazing since it had survived so well throughout the centuries. Not to mention that there seemed to be a sense of purpose in each stroke of the brush that could be followed; a sort of elegance that Eames was sure he could never recreate.

It certainly didn’t harm matters that whoever the sitter for the portrait was, was bloody gorgeous as well. The man looked to be almost around Eames’ age, the haughtiness of his bearing bellied by the slight smile playing at the corners of his full lips. His dark eyes even seemed to come alive with a certain sort of light that suggested a sort of amusement or maybe even a fondness.

Eames turned the painting over, hoping to find the name of the artist or maybe even the sitter, but instead what he found was a bit of paper stuck into the back beams of the canvas. He didn’t realize entirely what it was until he eased it out from between the beams, careful not to let it rip since the paper felt so fragile between his fingers.

His eyebrows shot up at the seal stamped into the seam of the letter with dark red wax, but his eyebrows shot up even more after he actually broke the seal and unfolded the letters.

He had to find the others.

\---

“I can’t believe it,” Mal murmured. She was examining the painting, which had been propped up on the settee in the parlor, with her hand braced against her chin. “You’re saying that this is him? This is actually Arthur Moss?”

“It has to be,” Eames said. He lifted the letter that he had brought with him. “It’s his signature at the bottom of this letter.”

“What does the letter even say?” Ariadne asked. She was draped sideways on one of the armchairs, in a way that Miles certainly would have reprimanded her if he weren’t as distracted as the rest of them.

“Ah, well, that’s the even more interesting part.” Eames leaned forward as he unfolded the letter so he could better read the slightly faded ink scrawled words.

“‘My own heart, it grieves me so to leave such a letter instead of delivering such words to you face to face, yet since you have yet to make the trip that would allow this I have no other choice.

We have been discovered. Do not put the blame on yourself. We took every available precaution. I know you can remember how I stressed on them and how you laughed… Perhaps you were right to laugh then. For apparent there were no premeasures that could hide our love for each other. It shone out too strongly to be contained and it was noticed. Oh, my love, she noticed…

Our marriage has been redirected to Rome and I fear I shall never again return to your beloved home. Daphne is convinced that being in Rome will bring me closer to the Church, which can cleanse my soul. You will no doubt laugh over that in the same way I did since you no doubt remember her candid remarks about religion. Apparently I have reformed her into an utter devotee.

I will find a way back to you, no matter what it takes. Do not grieve for me, my own, I beg of you. We will be together again. I am willing to pay any cost. Yours only, Arthur.’”

A heavy silence settled over the room once Eames finished reading. The clock that was perched on the mantle ticked away the minutes until Ariadne inhaled a shaky breath.

“That… That was one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.” She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I mean, how could things even… No, just no.”

“I am sorry to make matters worse then,” Miles said. He sighed when all the eyes in the room shifted towards him. “I know what became of Arthur Moss and it is not a pleasant end to the story.”

“He never reunited with his lover?” Mal prompted. She sounded heartbroken over even the idea of such a thing occurring.

Miles huffed out a laugh that held no humor, sounding far too much like a sigh. “Perhaps that is what prompted him to do what he did,” he said.  
And just like that the pieces slid together for Eames.

He registered Mal’s cry of warning as his vision clenched together as though through a tunnel, releasing the letter to let it flutter down onto his lap as his hands threatened to twist at it. “He killed himself,” he muttered, heart in his throat.

“Yes,” Miles said softly. “He took a gun to his head within only a year of marriage. Some say he only lasted long enough to ensure that he had racked up enough money in his own business ventures to see his family comfortably settled. Daphne remarried not long after her mourning period was over, but she was unable to have any children. Many said that the whole affair was cursed.”

“And rightfully so,” Mal said. She wrapped her arms around herself as though to protect herself from some unknown chill from the past. She didn’t even shift away when Yusuf placed a hand on her shoulder.

“What about the lover?” Yusuf asked. “Did he never make an appearance?”

Miles leaned back in his armchair with a heavy sigh. “I would think if he had,” he said, “then we would not be having such a sad conversation in the present.”


End file.
